


Monsters

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [12]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mild Smut, Not Canon Compliant, Out of Character, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: I wrote this as a request - 'Can you do little Drabble or headcanon for Geralt when he sees readers scars for the first time?'. I am fully aware of how triggering this topic is, and I will disclaim now: this ficlet deals with the topic of self-harm. If that subject is too upsetting for you, please do not read.I’m a self-harm survivor myself, and strongly believe in an open dialogue about it, and about mental illnesses in general. Some of the feelings that reader feels here, I’ve felt; some of the advice Geralt gives, I believe. I hope it provides you with a little comfort.- Geralt sees you; all of you.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 14
Kudos: 166





	Monsters

Things between you and Geralt had been heating up for awhile.

He made a point of visiting your little seamstress’ shop whenever he was in town. Initially perhaps it was just because you took excellent care with his damaged clothing, but eventually you suspected it was because you didn’t shy away from him in fright like so many of the other villagers. No, you engaged him in small conversation, coaxing his gruff grunting into single syllables – and in time, actual sentences.

When he came to you to ask you to repair a pair of trousers that had a suspiciously clean slice in the fabric – almost as if done by his _own hand_ , you’d mused – you’d traded a playful stare over the counter that drew in tight tension, until he vaulted over the barrier and kissed you.

After that day, when he was in town, he didn’t request your sewing services, but he did continue to visit. Every time he did you’d end up tangled in fabrics at the back of your store, hands all over each other, mouths hot and needy as you traded groans in the frenzy of your pubescent-feeling make-out sessions. You knew he wanted more – knew it from the hardness that brushed your belly, and the hands that begged at the buttons of your long-sleeved dress – but before it escalated, you’d always stop him.

He never asked why. He panted, nuzzled your cheek, and asked if he could see you again. You knew you should tell him no. But Gods – you wanted him, too.

You just could not understand why he’d want _you_.

He was a strikingly handsome man, all angular features and careless stubble, those fool’s gold irises that many feared so emotive and bright. His body – oh, fuck, his _body_ – was as a sculptor’s masterpiece, all strength and carved curves that your greedy fingertips had felt over the fabric of his shirt. You wanted to taste every dip and swell with your tongue, trace the washboard of his abdomen, thrill in the tensing of his thighs as you straddled him, but—

–then he’d _know_ , wouldn’t he? You hardly expected him to be satisfied with you, fully dressed, taking advantage of his glorious body. He wasn’t meat for your consumption.

But still he visited. Still you attempted to resist temptation, and ultimately caved every time, leading to more kissing and touching and frustration. Once, you’d hooked your legs around his hips and ground your aching cunt against his cock, a dry-fuck that had you shivering in orgasm in his supportive arms, him drawing every sigh and moan from you with the powerful rock of his pelvis. You could feel him throbbing, knew he wanted more, and still – _still_ you could not. This time he had scented you, and his discontent was a growl; he did not push for more, but he did leave the shop without another word, and you expected never to see him again.

You wished you weren’t so weak and stupid. You wished you weren’t monstrous. You cried into a bolt of linen and wondered what it would feel like to be enough for him.

The next day, he was back.

You were shocked to see him, to say the least; you dropped a spool of thread, and didn’t even greet him, wide-eyed. The distress was evident in his gaze. Gods, you wanted to kiss it away; you wanted to make him feel better.

“I know I’m not…” His smoke-slip voice was low, “ _Normal._ Or soft and pretty like other men in the village that no doubt seek your hand.” You watched his gaze dip as though he was ashamed. “I’m marked by my work, my battles. I know it scares people. I know it’s spoken of. I understand if you don’t want to see me undressed, but I know I _feel_ something with you. I mean, I-I think. Maybe I’m wrong?” His voice thinned as he second-guessed himself; you were staring, mouth parted. You’d never heard him say so much at once before. He thought _he_ was the problem? Had he ever looked in a mirror?

You owed him the truth, you knew it. Slowly, you rose, and walked over to the sign that announced your shop as open, turning it. Then you offered your hand for him to take, and lead him to your bedroom.

“We don’t have to do… I didn’t mean that I _need_ …” He was nervous, and so were you. You’d never felt so anxious in your entire life. But he wasn’t wrong – there _was_ something between you, something worth exploring.

“Geralt.” You began, sitting him on the edge of the bed, “I don’t stop your advances for what you are. I stop them for… what _I_ am.”

He looked confused, silent, and you knew the only way to fully explain was for him to see. Shaking, you began to undo the buttons on your long dress, one by one. He didn’t stop you, but you could see that he was as on-edge as you. _Good,_ you thought bitterly, the tension in his legs would help him to his feet faster so that he could run from you.

Like everyone did.

You held your gown closed for the longest time, dreading the inevitable. Finally, you released a long breath, squeezed your eyes shut, and dropped it. The material slithered down your body, pooling at your feet, leaving you in a very thin cotton shift that didn’t hide any of your secrets.

No, those were on bold display for him to examine.

Scars that striped your thighs; some old, some still fresh with healing. There were parallel lines on your wrists, up your forearms. You knew he’d be able to see through your undergarments to the marks on your stomach. Each slice made in a moment of despair, every cut drawn by your own hand in an effort to outwardly express the turmoil within you that you had nowhere to place. That you felt you could not control. There was something dark within you that puppeteered your hand, and you hated it.

He said nothing, but you didn’t hear the bed squeak. So he wasn’t going to run. Maybe he was going to choose a more painful route – tell you how stupid you were, how you shouldn’t hurt yourself, how something scarred would never heal properly again. You chanced a peek at him, and saw his face expressionless.

“You’re scarred because you fight monsters.” You hated the waver of your voice, “Every one of your injuries advertises lives saved, or a feat of heroism. I—I _choose_ to do this. You aren’t the disfigured one, Geralt – I am.”

He rose, slowly, and you flinched, expecting him to push past you to the door. Instead, he pulled you close to him, before sitting again, you straddling his lap. Gently, he took both your arms, and turned them palm-up, exposing the scarring. You couldn’t look, but he traced every mark with his gaze, still silent.

“I—I feel it too, whatever it is, between us. But I didn’t want… I didn’t want you to know. And now that you do, I don’t expect anything of you. Please. If you wish to leave, I’d rather you do it now.”

“The pity is the worst, isn’t it?” He murmured, and you blinked.

“It’s… people _mean_ well…” You tried to defend, but there was no conviction in your tone. “They don’t understand.”

“No.” Geralt agreed, “They don’t.” He met your eyes, then, as tear-glossy as they were, and gently he cupped your cheek with a large hand. “Sweet thing, I fight monsters, yes. But so do _you_.” His thumb brushed over your lips. “I’d venture that many of mine are easier to conquer than yours. And,” The gravel of his voice lowered, “Not _all_ of my scars are saved lives and heroics. Some of them are memories I don’t want to carry, but I must.”

You knew that feeling. You knew the feeling of the aftermath – the temporary relief that slowly gave way to self-loathing and anger at your weakness. You remembered when you made every mark, and why.

“May I?” He asked, lifting one arm. With knitted brows, you nodded, and were stunned when he pressed his lips against the scars. Some were neat and well-healed, others were raised and bumpy; it was as though your skin was as confused as you, not knowing how to heal. The tenderness with which he touched you finally caused your tears to spill.

“How could you think I’m worthy of your love, knowing that I do this to myself?” You asked, trembling coltishly. He paused, and released your arm. You drew it in to yourself, hugging it to your body.

“Because you aren’t your skin.” He whispered, “You aren’t these scars. You’re the girl that chided me for having my trousers improperly cuffed. You’re the sweetness of your soft mouth. You’re that laughter when I make a terrible joke about the songs they sing about me. The sum of your being – who you are, what you are – is not defined by scars. It doesn’t matter how you got them. They are _part_ of you, yes, but they do not encompass you entirely.”

“I… might get bad, again.” You confessed, “I might make more. I don’t know. Sometimes it hurts too much inside.”

“Then we find ways to put the hurt somewhere else.” He promised you, “We scream it out, together. We smash pottery. We write the feeling out. We occupy the darkness in your mind long enough for it to recoil. And it will.” He kisses your fingers. “Sometimes we might not win, but that’s okay. We start again the next day. That’s all it is, sweet thing; time. Day by day. We fight.”

“ _We?_ ” You squeaked, regarding him with wide eyes.

“Hmm.” He agreed, “If you’ll have me around more often, that is. You needn’t hide from me, gorgeous. And if you choose to hide it from the world, that is okay. But if you do not – it’s on _them_ if they don’t understand, not you.”

“How do you… know all of this?” You were overwhelmed, dizzy with his care.

“Every single person in the world has scars.” He confided, “Not all of them are worn on skin. I have yet to meet an unmarred person in my life.” Gently, he leaned forward; you felt the sweet scrape of his stubble as he chastely kissed each corner of your mouth. “You are _so beautiful._ Without disclaimer. As you sit here, now, with me – you are beautiful.”

When he kissed you, he muffled your sob, and held you, letting you unfold like a sheaf of tissue paper, layer by layer, exposed and fragile. For a long time, you stayed in your bedroom in silence, needing only touch. That night, you saw his scars for the first time, and wondered if he looked upon yours with the same fascination; you thought they were beautiful. He thought _you_ were beautiful.

In the warmth of his belief, and with the aid of time, that is what you became.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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